


Subdued

by tarakai714



Series: Subdued [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Chronic Pain, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:15:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarakai714/pseuds/tarakai714
Summary: Agitation, pain, and comforting companionship.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Subdued [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825081
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	Subdued

**Author's Note:**

> TW for implied self-harm.

It is loud enough that Hannibal shuts his book without marking the page he is reading. He puts the book on the side table and remains seated just for a moment. He hears Will swear, even though his choked voice is muffled and indistinct. Hannibal gets up and makes his way upstairs on quick strides.

Will is not in the bedroom, but the door to the guest room is wide open. It is more like a second study, mostly Will’s, than an actual guest room. They do not have guests in this house. The handful of times they had Chiyoh over, shared meals were awfully similar to obligatory family dinners. Hannibal of course prepared each meal with apt attention and delicate care, but conversations were minimal and the air was always tinged with paranoid tension. Hannibal refused to get caught in the crossfire, so he acted as the buffer between Chiyoh and Will. Will for his part, never goes beyond the single word pleasantries, retiring early to lounge somewhere else. He tries to sleep Chiyoh off. Her suspicion exhausts him and Will wonders how exhausting it must be for Chiyoh herself. Then again, is Chiyoh ever actually exhausted? Alas, she never sleeps in the spare room. Instead, she curls up downstairs on the sofa with a blanket from the linen closet. The last time Chiyoh was there, Will—still half asleep—made his way to the kitchen for a glass of cool water. Chiyoh was not there and Will knew that she was supposed to stay until morning so Hannibal could drive her to the train station. Will found her in the mudroom, poised with her back upright and her duffel bag by her feet, waiting for Hannibal. They had stared at each other for a few moments and then Will had turned around to go back upstairs.

There is a twin bed in this room that Will sometimes sleeps in. Hannibal never takes issue with it, not explicitly. Initially, their co-sleeping was a product of necessity, until it shifted into a mutual desire for comfort. By the time their bodies were healed enough for them to sleep in separate beds, codependency had molded them together in ways neither of them could have anticipated. Languid kisses were the perfect transition from friendly comfort to carnal intimacy. But they have never felt inclined to set boundaries. So when Will disappears into that room, Hannibal swallows his protests and waits patiently for him to reemerge.

The loud bang is a first-time occurrence that draws Hannibal to Will’s room this evening.

Hannibal finds him pressing his forehead against the wall. His shoulders are tense and his right hand trembles. The nerve damage causes tremors sometimes, but the way he trembles now is not entirely because of that. Hannibal says nothing but makes sure to remain in Will’s periphery as he walks up to him and slowly reaches out to worm his hand in between Will’s warm forehead and the Wall. Will does not resist when Hannibal turns him just so and brings his head to his shoulder. He wraps his free arm around Will’s back to hold him close and rubs his thumb against Will’s forehead. It needs a cold compress but he cannot leave Will by himself right now.

“Will.”

It is a whisper, meant to get Will’s attention without giving him the impression that he is being questioned or chided.

Will swallows roughly and slowly pulls himself out of Hannibal’s hold. His right arm is now folded against his chest; it is a reflex he shows when tension radiates pain in his chronically injured shoulder. He barely slept last night and was agitated throughout the day, refusing to eat a full meal and keeping his distance from Hannibal. He had mumbled an apology around three and went upstairs.

“I’m sorry. I just…”

He cuts himself off and presses his fingers to his eyes before touching his aching forehead. Hannibal watches him wince.

“Don’t apologize.” He takes a half step forward until he is in Will’s space again, and pries his hand away from his head. He cups Will’s face and tries to catch his eyes. He knows Will is not going to look at him, but he hopes to check his pupils in the dim sconce light.

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

Will scoffs bitterly: “until I do.”

Hannibal cannot help but smile at Will’s stubborn defiance. “You do not have to do anything, but I would like to take you downstairs and put some ice on your head.”

Will goes with Hannibal because that is the only way he can avoid being scrutinized further. Of course Hannibal will fuss, but once he is sure Will is fine, he may let him go. Will is counting on being let go so he can deal with his thoughts privately. He is not too happy with himself for this lapse in control. The house is quiet and conveniently dark and for a moment Will hears the hurried clicking of paws against the floorboards. He looks toward the mudroom in anticipation only to realize that no dogs live in this house. Hannibal notices this, but says nothing as he nudges Will forward and guides him to sit down on the sofa before walking away.

A warm towel is draped over his aching shoulder and Will looks up at Hannibal in confusion. He is holding the towel against Will’s arm, gently prying it away from its rigidly curled position against his chest. Will has to squint at Hannibal’s lips to see the way they move. His voice swims around in the persistent buzzing in Will’s head.

“Let go, Will.”

Will ducks his head and flexes his fingers as warmth seeps into his arm. He allows Hannibal to move the limb this way and that to encourage the tightness to fade away. He eventually removes the towel and makes quick work of wrapping Will’s arm in a sling. He checks his pupils again and offers him a glass of water.

“Do you know where you are, Will?”

Will wants to say he is fine. He wants to calmly explain that he does not do this _that often_ and that it probably is not a concussion. He thinks by now his skull may have produced an overgrowth of bone to accommodate his outbursts, but then again he rarely lets himself slip this much. It is not a performative act, almost entirely because it is not executed with the intention or anticipation of an audience. It is a desperate move born out of sheer frustration. And Will is not blind to the way his frustration has been building up. He may have called it “existential dread” sometime in his past. He may have even mentioned it in some of his lectures. But at this point, having had intimately close encounters with mortality and fatality—his own and others’—Will finds the idea ridiculous. Death has rejected him on more than one occasion. And each time, Will has failed to redefine his existence as something sustainable.

Days drag on for a small eternity. Will has never been fond of Summers. When he was a child, his greatest motivation was to get far far away from the sweltering heat of Louisiana. But the heat chased after him, as if it had permanently lodged in his body. It boiled him through during his ordeal with Encephalitis, and after that, fever became an alternate state of being for Will. Now he finds this new-found freedom to be stifling at times. He is untethered from every social—or economic—role he assumed in his previous life. He is neither a “not really an agent,” nor a doting stepfather, and not even a fisherman anymore. Hannibal has suggested, on more than one occasion, to purchase the gear for him, should he be inclined to explore the nearby lakes. Will always declines.

He does not know how to explain this to Hannibal, all the connotations of _I don’t know what to do with myself._

“I’m here with you.” He says at last and Hannibal does not pry. His smile is genuine though, so much that it pulls at the corners of his eyes. There is such joy, Hannibal has come to realize, in being appreciated by Will. It is rarely given freely, as Will seems to prefer the nonchalantly organic transition of their companionship. It is not even appreciation per se that pleases Hannibal. It is recognition as someone with whom Will Graham can see himself. Since Mischa, Hannibal has not cared for anyone the way he cares for Will. His feelings for him are akin to unconditional love, albeit with no reliance on familial relations. That is what Hannibal meant when he told Will about his _inconvenient compassion_ for him.

He tugs Will’s hand with the intention of helping him upstairs to the bedroom, where he can comfortably doze. But Will has no intention of getting up.

“I just don’t want to move,” mumbles Will.

“Are you experiencing any nausea?”

Will shakes his head and says something about sleeping on the couch, almost certain that Hannibal is going to pull his good arm out of its socket dragging him upstairs. But then Hannibal is there with a pillow and an extra blanket. He seats himself near Will and before he can react, he wraps an arm around Will and pulls him down against his chest. The embrace is not awkward at all at this point. It never really was, as it was initiated and accepted so naturally. Will squirms a bit to fold his leg over Hannibal’s, becoming smaller so Hannibal can hold him under the blanket. Hannibal keeps one hand over his lower back, just holding him there. His other hand rests over Will’s aching shoulder for a moment and then slides down Will’s arm to arrange it safely over his chest.

Will’s breath hitches and he swallows roughly.

Hannibal cards his fingers through Will’s hair.

“Rest," he says.

And Will closes his eyes.


End file.
